


Unsent Love Letter

by GizliBiraz



Category: Original Work
Genre: Desire, Epistolary, F/F, I know the truth in your heart., Limerance, Love, Love Letters, Lust, Other, Random Musings, Unrequited Love, Yearning, unsent love letter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-11-22 23:44:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11390883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GizliBiraz/pseuds/GizliBiraz
Summary: Ever loved someone who didn't *quite* love you back?  What if you could just tell them all the things in your heart?What if it was your best friend?





	Unsent Love Letter

**Author's Note:**

> Considering making this a series where the letter is given with back-and-forth responses... but I haven't firmed that up yet...
> 
> Please R/R. Let me know if a follow-up is a good idea or just gratuitous.

I am sitting here, staring at this page, begging the universe to send me great poetic verses, or perhaps some inspirational prose, to explain with outstanding clarity the jumble of insanity and inanity tumbling through my head. And yet, I know the words will not come. I know the groove in the wax is worn too deep, and I can't get off this track. There is no solace any more when I find a word to encompass the emotion, and there is no more disappointment, either, when I don't. I have come to expect the words to win, to place their cruel irregularities and limitations firmly in my way when all I truly crave is the ability to explain. And yet, I cannot do it.

I've been told I'm a good storyteller, that I can spin a yarn to move mountains. But, no matter how hard I try, I cannot paint a scenario where these meager meanderings adequately express the tumult of my wrecked, obsessive greed. I want to make you understand, convince you that my platitudes are sincere, perhaps somehow spark a moment of perfect clarity wherein you realize, the depth of emotion you have for me is nothing to fear or hide. Of course, that train of thought is folly--wishful thinking.

So, I write. It's about all I can do--well, no, that's not true. I *could* rock your world and give you earth-shattering orgasms for days... but that is not something you want. At least from me. So, I write. I want to write amazing tender endearments make you fall madly in love with me or seductive sonnets to make you dripping wet for me. I want to **AFFECT** you--as you affect me just by being around. Your presence makes my heart flutter, my soul yearn, and my arms ache to hold you. And yes, hanging out with you makes me wet and wanting.

But that is not what I wanted to say. I did not want to delve to that base and lewd level. Never mind that it's true. I know that's not your thing. It's not what you want to hear. I know it makes you uncomfortable. But, see, here's the thing. I know the reason it makes you uncomfortable is NOT because it is explicit or because you can't appreciate good porn. It is two-fold, as near as I can figure.

First, you have a hard time thinking of yourself that way, or, more specifically, that anyone can want you in that way. Secondly, and perhaps more importantly in this case, you don't reciprocate. You don't want me in that way, and you can't make yourself, so it is awkward for you when I profess my desires...

But yet--you do. I firmly believe it. You don't want to admit it, somehow can't open yourself to what that could mean. You are not ready. But I see your hetero resolve eroding. You have told me that I, for you, am like none other. You have told me how you've never trusted anyone else like me. You have told me that you love me--that you love me as more than a friend, more than even a best friend. I know you enjoyed kissing me on the rare occasions it has happened. When you are drinking, when you let go of inhibitions, you are very demonstratively physically affectionate with me. We know tat drunk pople won't do things they don't want to--they just lose the part of themselves that puts a prohibition on those actions. So, you hug me, hold my hand, hold me, even--rarely--kiss me when you're drinking. And more often than not, I know the secret: you are not nearly so drunk as you claim to be. Which begs the question **WHY** do you need the excuse?

I think--and once again, this is likely wishful thinking, but--I think it is because, though you may be ready to play, you are not sure you'll enjoy it enough to keep it up. And you don't want to open that door, because you can't close it again--at least not without hurting me. You want to try it, to see if you can let me adore you and love you and SATISFY you the way I want to, but you are terrified of what comes next... especially if you decide it's not for you.

And the truth is, I don't know. I don't know what happens next. All I know is that I want you. I want to please you. I want to drive you over that ledge of impossible release, and I want to do it again and again and again. I don't know how you cold **NOT** like that, honestly. Forget who's giving it, you're getting the ultimate pleasure.

Oh, and just for the record, I expect **NOTHING** in return. Oh, sure, I'd love it if you would kiss me and maybe even touch me a little, but I am happy simply to make you scream.

So, tell me. Where does this leave me? I know you hate this holiday, and I sat down with the intent of addressing that hatred and offering my care and support. But the words attacked, and they took me prisoner, and they took me on a journey I was so unprepared for. I think of things I've said here, and my own fears and insecurities drive me back, away from this precipice, to hide once again in the shadow of safety. I will likely never give you this letter. I will likely never have the balls to just fucking kiss you already--despite the constant screaming in my head to do so.

So, why am I still writing it? I don't know. Maybe I hope you'll find it by accident. Maybe I hope I can convince myself that I'm not a complete and utter fool.

Regardless, I love you. I want you. That cannot and will not change. Beyond that, the ending eludes me.

But then again, doesn't it always?

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and suggestions welcome! Thanks for reading!


End file.
